Chat
by allan
Summary: Cat's call. (follow-on tale to 'Giving Up' - see Superman fanfiction)


            "Meow, meow."

            "Sharrup, you drank it all," Tinker mumbled into the pillow.  He'd found the kitten on his doorstep, soaked, shivering, thin as a shadow.  Black cats were meant to be good luck, but now he'd have no milk for his porridge and in all probability a little offering to clean up, after he'd stood in it of course.    

            "Mrroow!"

            Tinker jerked bolt upright.  That was no bloody kitten and it wasn't from outside.  

The moth-eaten velvet curtains didn't quite keep out a full moon and his spell of warding hadn't kept out an intruder.  A dim figure sat by the window, silent, unmoving, but with glittering eyes fixed on him—cat's eyes.

            He had a light switch routed under his pillow and a sawn-off pump action beneath the bed, but Tinker reached for neither.  His warding spell was good, but whoever, whatever, sat across the room was better.  He risked a quick blink of second sight.

            "Bast…!"  The word shot out like a curse, but it wasn't.  Tinker had seen a panther with the body of a woman.  There was a sand-covered Kemetic city that bore her name.  Bubastis, it was once the capital of Egypt and she its goddess.

            "I… I mean, Lady Bast," Tinker stuttered, feeling his scrotum tighten.  "Welcome to my humble abode."

            The kitten, of course!  That was why his spell hadn't even warned him--dickhead here had taken her in.  The good news was that she had accepted his food and shelter; the desert had ancient rules of reciprocal hospitality.

            The panther-woman flowed to her feet--all he could hear was the swish of her tail as she padded closer, a sleek silhouette against filtered light.  

            "Think you know me, little wizard?  At night all cats are black."  Her voice held sibilance just short of a purr--the kind a cat makes over its mouse.

            Tinker's memory jerked under the goad of fear.  "Y… you are the daughter of Amon-Ra, a netjer-goddess second only to Isis."  His gypsy tongue might yet buy time.  "Your long-revered name means…"

            "The tearer," she interrupted for him, sharp claws catching the moonlight.

            Tinker felt sweat trickling cold under his arms.  "…of the serpent Apophis who would kill the sun-god as he sleeps and drown us all in eternal dark."  He was talking pretty fast.  "Just as Ra has bid your children protect man from lesser vermin of the night."

            She was leaning over the foot of his bed now and somehow a couple of saucers of milk didn't seem a really satisfying offering.  Tinker hastily jerked his feet away, acutely conscious of several feline blood-offerings he'd made.  Then it came to him; she would be weak, nobody had made a real sacrifice to Bast for years, centuries, millennia even.

            "My Lady," he said respectfully, "Please be reasonable, you are five thousand years old and all the cat temples lie in dusty ruin.  Man has long forgotten all the old gods, if I hadn't studied arcana I wouldn't have even recognized you.  I'm sorry, but the party really is over."

            Tinker's hands clutched the bed sheets tighter; his feet were beneath him now, body tensed like a spring under the covers.  He heard the sudden intake of her breath, felt the weight-shift from hands to hips as she readied to pounce.

            Tinker threw himself forward, tossing the quilt and blankets over her like a net.  It gave him a brief chance to scrabble an arm under his bed and reach the pistol-gripped pump held convenient by a speaker magnet.

            A clawed hand tore through the bedding in a shower of feathers, but he smashed the barrel across it.  There was a muffled cry of pain and one of her nails shot off to fall in a patch of moonlight.  Tinker stared; it was like a sharpened guitar finger-pick, something a 'Dead Rabbit' might have used during New York's civil war draft riots.  He grabbed at the injured hand and a black velvet glove came off as she jerked away.

            "You're not Bast," Tinker snarled, pushing the barrel hard against the tangled body.  "But this is definitely a shotgun and you'd better believe I'll use it."

            Her struggles ceased, and Tinker reached under his pillow for the light switch.  Still keeping the gun pressed against her, he pulled back the covers.

            "Fuck me," he exclaimed, doubting his eyes.  "You're  Catwo…"

            "Selena," she hissed, licking bruised and bleeding knuckles.  "A hierophant of Bast; and you can fuck yourself."

            "Cat burglar more like," growled Tinker.  "How did you get past my wardings?"

            A cat-mask covered her upper face and her eyes blazed scornfully from it.  "You neglected the skylight."

            Yeah, Tinker remembered now.  He'd slipped on a wet slate and nearly broke his neck trying to fasten the seal of warding on it, gave up as it was too small to admit a man anyway and thinking no one could be that crazy.  That would be next on the job list.

            Tinker waved her back to the chair, stood up and got his robe, swapping the sawn-off carefully as he pulled on each sleeve.  Decent again, Tinker sat back on the bed and fumbled for the drawer in his nightstand.  He kept a spare joint there to chase away nightmares and occasional bouts of stress insomnia—he figured this met all counts.

            "Normally I'd ask a lady's permission," Tinker said, willing it to light.  "But seeing as how this is my house and you're no lady…"  He laughed, exhaling a resinous cloud.  "…besides, wasn't Bast a dope goddess?"

            Selena smiled thinly, her nails abrading the chair-arms for want of his throat.  "Amongst other things."

            Tinker recalled his Herodotus.  "Yeah, rivers of wine, pussy-flashing, girl on girl—regular little party animal, eh?"

            The dope got adrenalin down to a dull roar as Tinker checked her out.  That black velvet sure hid none of her slim, tight-muscled figure and even snarling, those high cheekbones and full lips complimented eyes green and wild as his own.  Mixed race to Tinker's guess.  Yeah, Eartha bloody Kitty, a notorious alley cat with morals to match.  But, why was she here?  What could she possibly want from a poor bugger like him?  

            Then Tinker realized.  Of course--strictly speaking, he was a multi-millionaire. 

 "It's the ice, isn't it?" he demanded, poking the gun at her.  "Only the three biggest uncut diamonds in the world.  Pity they're artificial—hand-made, I should say.  That Soops has one king-hell of a grip."

            Selena was hissing like a kettle on the hob but it would take more than nine lives to charge a sawn-off pump.

            "I'd forgot they were a girl's best friend; silly, you being so American and all."  Tinker took a leisurely drag and blew smoke rings at her.  "Couldn't find 'em though, could yah?  Not in the ice tray, not painted black and put back in the coal scuttle.  So you thought you'd put the frighteners on, me being so superstitious like."

            "Heard you sacrificed one of my little sisters for those gems," she accused.

            Tinker frowned, it was kinda the truth.  "Old, sick and unwanted, the RSPCA had the poor moggie down for the gas chamber anyway.  Hey, you try saying no to a super-being who wants forgiveness from his ex in the worst way."

            "He murdered Lois," Selena spat through sharp white teeth.  "Blew her apart at the seams like a bad trick with a..."  She stared pointedly at the scatter gun in Tinker's hand.

            "You'd know all about turning tricks," Tinker grumbled.  Junky hookers weren't his favourite people, they gave sex and drugs a bad name.  Still, Selena had straightened herself out, if you could call burglary going straight, and he'd heard she basically funded all of Gotham's cat shelters.

            All very interesting, but what to do with Selena now?  Gun her down, and Gotham's far scarier anthropomorph would be paying him a once-only visit.  Fuck with the Bat and you bleed.  But if he let her go, she'd only be back—plus he might not be so lucky next time.

            Tinker cleared his throat awkwardly and reached for the glass of water by his bed.  He only took a sip; it was very expensive water.  Reaching in, Tinker fished out an unmelted cube and tossed it into Selena's lap.  She caught it, felt the weight and frowned, tried scratching it with her high-carbon claws—nothing.  

Selena raised surprised eyes.

            Tinker shrugged.  "Call it my blood-donation.  Hey, you're a Big Apple gal, no such thing as clean money.  Go spay every feral in Gotham on me, but mainly fuck off before I change my mind and don't ever come back."

            "Big thanks from the little sisters, Tinker."   Selena slipped the enormous diamond into a hidden pocket, but didn't make to leave. A blush crept from under her mask.  "There was something else, something for me."

            Now he was confused.  Like a good little grey wizard he didn't have anything else of value except the bikes, and that rock could buy her any number.

            Selena couldn't meet his questioning eyes.  Big cats aren't used to begging.

            "Thing is… I need a love potion… whatever you call it."  Her eyes were very bright green.  "Dammit, I need a really strong one."

            Tinker clutched at his beard and moaned softly.  


End file.
